He looked at her. Her green eyes were fierce, intent.

  "Tell me the truth," she said again.

  "I don't know. It could be as easy as driving to the border on a back road and walking across. Best thing is to think we'll make it. We'll adapt to the situation as it changes. I'm good at improvising. It could be worse."

  She nodded.

  A few minutes later, they sat at the table drinking the tea. It was bitter, but it was hot. After the first sip, Thorne realized how tired he was. He looked over at Anya. There were deep shadows under her eyes.

  "What is the plan?" she said

  "We need sleep. We'll leave tonight after it gets dark. It's better if we move at night."

  "What if there is a roadblock?"

  "They'll concentrate on the highways and the border, but they can't be everywhere. My phone shows a track a few kilometers north of here, before Novgorod. It will get us close to the border."

  "And then?"

  "Then we walk. We'll deal with it when we get there."

  He set his cup down on the table.

  "You were an officer in your country's military?" she asked.

  "Yes. A Captain."

  She smiled at him. It made him happy to see her smile.

  "I outrank you. That means you must answer my questions."

  He laughed.

  "You said before that you became a CIA spy because you wanted to help keep your country safe."

  "That's right."

  "I love my country. I hate what they are doing to it. I want you to understand that this is why I have betrayed my oath."

  "I don't think you betrayed your oath, Anya. If it's anything like the one I took, you swore to defend your country and its leaders."

  "Yes, that is so."

  "That oath goes two ways. Your leaders are supposed to do what's best for the country, not push it into a war that guarantees its destruction. No matter what they think, they cannot prevent defeat if they attack. They're the ones who have broken the oath, not you. Keeping the oath means doing what is right for the country, not what you are told to do. You're doing the right thing."

  "You are very good with words."

  She yawned, covering her mouth.

  "We have to rest," Thorne said. "You take the bed. I'll sleep on the couch."

  "The couch is too small," she said. "The bed is big enough for both of us, I think."

  "Are you sure?"

  "You are afraid to share a bed with me, American?"

  "Michael. My name is Michael."

  "You are afraid to share a bed with me, Michael?"

  "No. It's just..."

  "Don't worry," she said. "I'm not going to seduce you. Besides, you are very tired. It would be a waste of time."

  "Now wait a minute," he said.

  She laughed.

  "You should see your face."

  Anya got up and went into the bedroom. Thorne followed her in. She lay down on the mattress.

  "It is not too bad."

  She patted the mattress next to her. A puff of dust rose into the air.

  "Come."

  He lay down next to her. There was enough room for the two of them, not enough for space between. He could feel her heat against him. She turned and put her arm across his chest.

  "I am frightened," she said. "I don't want to die."

  Her breath smelled of tea.

  "I know."

  "My father was senior officer in SVR. Sometimes he would be home drinking with his friends. They were cruel men, like him. They talked about people they arrested, what they had done to make them confess. They laughed about things I do not wish to remember, terrible things. I know what they do to traitors. I know what will happen to me if I am caught."

  "You're not a traitor, Anya."

  "In their eyes, I am."

  "We're not going to get caught."

  "Yes, but if we are, you must promise me something. Promise you will not let them take me alive."

  "Anya..."

  "You have the gun. Promise."

  He looked at her.

  "Promise."

  "All right, I promise."

  "You must mean it, Michael."

  "I promise. If it comes down to it, I won't let them take you."

  "Do you have a woman, back in America?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Not exactly? What does that mean?"

  "There's a woman I work with. I like her, a lot. She's a friend. Sometimes we're together. Mostly, we're not."

  "You are not married?"

  "I was, once. It didn't last. No, I'm not married."

  While they were talking, it had grown dark. A sudden glare of lightning lit the room, followed by a clap of thunder that shook the house. Rain began drumming on the roof. She reached over and touched his face.

  "Remember, you promised not to let them take me."

  "I won't let them take you," he said.

  She was quiet for a minute.

  "Michael."

  "What?"

  "I want you to make love to me."

  He started to say something. She put her finger on his lips.

  "Tomorrow we may be dead. Do not talk."

  She kissed him.

  "Anya...

  "Sshh."

  Then there was no point in talking.

  Chapter 71

  DDCIA Davidson was feeling good. He'd been proven right about Thorne, hadn't he? The Russia operation had turned into a major disaster. Thorne had gone against orders. He was in the wind with OPERA, playing knight in shining armor to her damsel in distress.

  Davidson didn't believe for one moment that OPERA had stolen the secret war plan of the Russian high command. He didn't believe Moscow was planning a first strike. Tarasov wasn't that crazy. Sure, the blockade must be annoying the hell out of him, but everyone knew you got around these things through negotiation and backdoor diplomacy. No one in their right mind would start an all-out nuclear war. The Russian generals were professionals. They weren't going to risk turning their beloved motherland into something that glowed in the dark. Thorne was probably sleeping with OPERA and following his hormones.

  It was late. Davidson put the files he'd been working on into the wall safe, closed the door, and spun the combination. He closed the door to the inner office, walked past his assistant's desk, stepped into the deserted hallway and headed for the express elevator that would take him to the underground garage reserved for Langley's chiefs. He was halfway to his car before he realized he'd left the keys in his desk. He turned and got back on the elevator.

  Back on the seventh floor, he entered the combination for the hall door and went in. The door to the inner office was open, the one he'd left closed. Davidson's shoes made no sound as he crossed the soft carpet.

  Ed Bradford was bent over Davidson's desk, his back turned toward the door. He hadn't heard Davidson come in. The wall safe stood open. A file lay open on the desk. Bradford was taking pictures of it with his phone.

  Shit! He's the fucking mole!

  Davidson backed quietly away. He stepped out into the hall and closed the door. Then he called security.

  "This is Deputy Director Davidson," he said. "COO Bradford is currently in my office. Get up here now and arrest him. Secure his phone."

  "Sir? Did I hear you correctly? You want us to arrest him?"

  "You got it. Put him on ice. No contact. He's to have no visitors. No calls. No communication with the outside world. Understood?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Davidson disconnected. He had to call Kramer. She wasn't going to like what he had to say.

  Kramer picked up. She sounded annoyed.

  "What is it, Scott? I'm about to go out."

  "The mole is Bradford. He's in my office right now, photographing a classified file. I've alerted security."

  The elevator opened and two armed guards stepped out.

  "Security is here. He's not going anywhere."

  "Call Olmstead and Carlson. Meeting in my office, one hour."

  Kramer disconnected.

  Thinking about it, Davidson realized there had been signs something was off with Bradford. He'd caught him once before in the inner office when he shouldn't have been there. Bradford had asked about an operation that really wasn’t his concern. In hindsight, Davidson knew he should have reported it, but at the time it had seemed innocent enough.

  How did Bradford get the combination to the safe? With a sinking feeling, Davidson remembered opening it when Bradford was in the room. He could have been close enough to see the sequence of numbers. It was a security lapse that might come back and bite him.

  Well, there was no proof he'd been lax. If Bradford tried to implicate him, he'd deny it. It would be Bradford's word against his. Who were they going to believe? A traitor? Davidson didn't think so. In fact, he ought to come out of this looking pretty good. After all, he'd caught the mole.

  Feeling things were under control, he made the calls to Carlson and Olmstead.

  Chapter 72

  It was late in the afternoon of the same day Stepanov's body had been found. Colonel Ivanov caught an unpleasant hint of his own sour sweat as he paced back and forth in his office. Outside, the light was almost gone from the sky. Volkova had not been found. He didn't want to contemplate what would happen to him if she managed to escape.

  The last sighting of her had been at a checkpoint on the M10 in the early morning. She'd been riding in a white Lada. A white Lada had been reported stolen in the vicinity of the Metropole Hotel. The license number matched the car that had passed through the checkpoint with Volkova.

  There'd been a man with her. He'd shown a Russian passport in the name of Alexei Baryshnikov. The passport was counterfeit and had been flagged. Whoever he was, if he tried to use it again he'd be arrested.

  They weren't going to get far. The border was sealed, roadblocks had gone up everywhere. A description of the car and occupants had been relayed to the militia. Ivanov reminded himself that she couldn't escape. So where the hell was she?

  Volkova had gone north, ruling out Belarus and the Ukraine as her destination. As Ivanov had suspected, she was making for Finland or one of the Baltic states. There hadn't been enough time for her to get out of the country. It bothered him that she hadn't been caught yet. She and her companion must have stopped somewhere.

  She was hiding, but where? Ivanov considered the options. The checkpoint she'd passed had been north of Tver'. The next town of any size between there and Saint Petersburg was Novgorod. Roadblocks had been set up before she could have reached Novgorod. That meant she was somewhere south of there.

  What would he do in her situation? The smart thing would be to lay low during the day and try to escape at night. It would be dark in less than half an hour. By morning she could be gone, and his career would be down the toilet.

  Major Petrov came into the room. He was excited

  "Sir, we have a hit on the car. A satellite picked it up on the other side of Tver'. It turned off the M10."

  At last!

  "Excellent. Where did it go?"

  "East on a secondary road, south of Novgorod. Then it turned onto a dirt track. There's nothing at the end of the track except an old farm house. I checked the registry. It's been unoccupied for years, but the taxes are current."

  "Is the car visible there?"

  "No, sir, but there is a barn. They probably put it inside."

  "Alert the militia in Novgorod. Tell them to send a team. Remember to tell them I want her alive."

  "Yes, sir."

  Ivanov had anticipated needing to move after his quarry. General Peshkov had given him everything he'd asked for. A helicopter was standing by.

  "We're going north, Major. You can call the militia on the way."

  "Yes, Colonel."

  I'm coming, Volkova. You will learn what happens to traitors.

  A car was waiting for them outside headquarters. The two men left for the helicopter. With a little luck, this would be over soon.

  Chapter 73

  Thorne was in the barn, looking at the van parked in the back. He had to assume that the militia would be looking for the stolen car. If he could get the vehicle running, they could abandon the Lada.

  The van was a UAZ-452, a vehicle found all over Russia. It was painted army green. The windows were covered with dust and grime. The designers hadn't bothered much with styling. It looked like a loaf of bread stuck on top of four wheels.

  He walked around the truck, inspecting it. The tires still held air and had tread. He opened the door to the cab and climbed in. The engine was mounted between the front seats. The keys were in the ignition.

  It was supposed to be a safe house. Maybe the truck was more than a prop.

  Anya stood nearby.

  "Do you think it will run?"

  "I don't know. They'll be looking for the car. If I can get this started, we'll take it instead."

  He turned the key. Nothing happened.

  "The battery's dead. That figures."

  He looked around the unfamiliar cab, searching for a hood release. He found it, pulled, and was rewarded with a metallic clunk. Thorne got out and propped the hood open. The battery was mounted near the right fender. He went around to the back and opened the door, hoping for tools or cables. There was nothing, not even a spare or a jack. The interior of the truck was empty.

  Anya went to the Lada and opened the trunk. She came back with a set of jumper cables in her hand.

  "Will these help?" Anya said. "They were in the trunk of the car."

  "Good. Yes, they'll help."

  He pried off the covers on the van's battery.

  "The cells are dry. I'll need water. Can you fill up the teakettle?"

  "I'll get it."

  A few moments later she returned with the water. He filled the cells and replaced the covers. It might work. It might not.

  "Bring the car up close," he said. "Leave the engine running and open the hood."

  While Anya started the car, he hooked up the cables to the dead battery. She drove the car up close, got out, and propped open the hood. Thorne connected the cables to the Lada, then got back into the cab of the truck. This time when he turned the key, the instruments came alive. The fuel gauge showed half-full. He turned the key off and got out.

  "Now we wait to see if the battery will take a charge."

  "If it doesn't?"

  "I'll pull the one from the car. It's smaller, but it should work."

  "Is there fuel?"

  "The gauge read half a tank. Let's hope it's still good."

  "It is time to give you this," Anya said.

  She took out the drive with the file she'd downloaded from Stepanov's computer.

  "It's safe with you. Keep it."

  "No, Michael. You must take it. It is better."

  He took it from her outstretched hand and looked down at it.

  "Such a small thing," he said.

  "Small?"

  "To hold the key to peace or war."

  "What will your government do with it?"

  "I think they'll tell Tarasov they know what he's doing and warn him to back off. Without the element of surprise, he can't win. He'll call off the attack."

  "What if he doesn't?"

  "It would mean war. Then nobody wins. But I don't think he's that stupid."

  "Tarasov is not stupid, but it is a mistake to assume he will call it off."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Tarasov believes."

  "What do you mean? Believes in what?"

  "He's still a dedicated communist, a true believer. Before everything fell apart, Tarasov was an important man on the Central Control Commission. In time, he would probably have become a member of the Politburo. He has never gotten over the loss of our prestige. He hates America. He sees your country as the obstacle that keeps Russia from claiming her rightful place in the world. This is his chance to destroy you, and it will only come once."

  "He can't really believe he'd get away with it."

  Anya shrugged. "He's a gambler. All gamblers are sure they are going to win. It's their nature."

  "War isn't a game of cards or a horse race."

  "No, it is more like chess. Tarasov understands how the game is played in the real world. Syria is a good example of what I'm talking about. He gambled that your president would do nothing to stop him. He was right."

  "Yes, but now he has to deal with the blockade."

  "That is a counter move by his opponent. If this is like chess, your president has put Tarasov in check. Tarasov has only two options. He must attack, or concede. If he concedes, he loses. It is not in his nature."

  "I hope you're wrong."

  "I want to be wrong."

  She reached up and touched his cheek.

  "I want time to be with you."

  "I want that too."

  He felt something surface within, unexpected, unbidden. It seemed to come from every cell in his body, a feeling impossible to resist. The words were on his lips before he had time to think about them.

  "I love you," he said.

  He looked into her eyes, and knew it was true.

  "I love you too," Anya said.

  They wrapped their arms around each other. He could feel her heart beating against his. For a moment, the outer world didn't matter. Then he thought about where they were.

  "We have to get going."

  "I know."

  "Let's see if the truck will start."

  Thorne climbed into the cab and turned the key. The starter made a grinding sound. He pumped the gas pedal and tried again. The engine turned and coughed, backfired and caught. A cloud of black smoke erupted from the tailpipe. He left the motor running, got out, detached the jumper cables.

  He closed the hood.

  Anya pushed the barn door open. It was now full dark. The rain had stopped. Thick clouds hid the moon and stars. He drove the van out of the barn. The night air smelled of rain and wet earth.

  As soon as she got in, he let out the clutch and drove away. The track was wet and muddy from the storm. He came to the paved secondary road and turned toward the M10.

  The van ran well enough, except for an occasional stutter from the engine. They reached the main highway and turned right toward Novgorod. They'd only been driving for a few minutes when a convoy of militia cars roared by in the other direction.